


A Full Bodied Blend

by RedFive



Category: Hannibal (TV), Imperial Radch Series - Ann Leckie
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Ann Leckie, Big God Energy, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Murder Mystery, Other, Radchaai (Imperial Radch) Society & Culture, Science Fiction, Will is a computer (sort of) but has a human body, non-binary characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-11-02 02:02:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17879006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedFive/pseuds/RedFive
Summary: A series of increasingly violent murders has put the small hamlet of Dvaras on edge days before a visit from the Lord of the Radch. The ancillary unit Justice of Volf One Trap Fifteen is assigned to Lieutenant Crawford and tasked with bringing the Ripper to justice.





	1. under a red star

**Author's Note:**

> A note about the pronouns: I keep waffling on whether to explain the situation with the pronouns in Will's internal thoughts from the outset or not. The response I got from beta-readers was that knowing and not knowing beforehand was very much an individual preference and some people really enjoyed working it out on their own. But if you would like an explanation, skip to the note at the end of the first chapter. If not, read on, and feel free to ask me any questions in the comments. Enjoy!

I am not surprised to discover the dog in my shadow. The body of this particular ancillary always has at least one in her wake. This one looks as downtrodden and anxious as the rest of the planet. Such is the price of the war the Ripper wages against Dvaras for reasons that are no more clear to me than they were eighteen cycles ago.

I kneel down and extend my hand to the creature. She does not hesitated before accepting my friendship. To her, I seem as ordinary as any other human. But I am not human, at least not in theory, and honestly there are moments that I question whether humanity itself is deserving of the classification. After all, what is DNA if not a program. Are we not all machines in one form or another?

The dog licks my hand then nuzzles my palm. I scratch her behind the ears because I know we will both enjoy it.

There is a commotion nearby when one of my ancillaries spots a citizen creeping up to the body with a tablet in hand and raises the alarm. This causes the dog to take fright and bound away. I watch her depart with regret, but I do not blame her and in fact, sympathize with her fear even if I don’t experience it in exactly the same way. Every part of me is on edge tonight. The feeling bleeds into me from all my ancillaries and for good reason. Tonight’s crime scene is excessively dramatic.

In the body of One Trap Nineteen, I escort the citizen away and confiscate the device she used to take photos of the Ripper’s latest victim.  The body is suspended over a pool of black liquid too large to just be blood. It is cold some six hours now, and yet blood somehow still seeps from the single crescent-shaped cut across its abdomen in perfectly timed drips.

"One Trap," Lieutenant Crawford says in a deep baritone to One Trap Fifteen being the one ancillary not seemingly involved with anything. “What do you see?” She asks me as she stands in front of the body with her fingers curled into two tight fists. It’s the only outward indication that there is anything amiss other than the corpse. In all other ways, she is the exemplar of Radchaai stoicism that the natives mistake for something more sinister, but I know better. I know that the Lieutenant is operating at only 90% capacity and sleeping 60% less than she should. There are signs of stress in all her vitals and elevated levels of testosterone and adrenaline as her body thrums quietly with anger. Later I, or one on my other ancillary bodies, will recommend a sedative though she will likely refuse. But for the time being, we must see to the body.

Over Lieutenant Crawford’s shoulder, I see a mother and child walking hurriedly away from the crime scene. She is crying. The child glances back merely curious. It is unlikely they are suspects, both being too frail to perpetrate this level of destruction, but in less than two hundred paces, one of my ancillaries will intercept them and take their testimony anyway.

Fifty yards away from where Crawford and I stand, I interrogate the two students who found the body through the ancillary segment recognized as One Trap Four. They are visibly and understandably shaken as they relate to me, One Trap Four, the events of the last half hour. Allegedly, they were returning to their homes when they came upon the ruined body of their fellow citizen, which is now only a pile of wet tissue, bone, and candle wax. But that is not the only emotion the students are experiencing. They bounce on their heels with an excitement most would consider inappropriate, Rachaai or not. They will have a story to tell their classmates tomorrow, and while they are disturbed by the state of the corpse, they are not overly affected by it. Their behavior sickens me, and I cannot get sick--not in the way that humans do anyway. My capacity for analytical thought and overall lack of empathy insulate me from such an embarrassing reaction.

“Ship?” Lieutenant Crawford prompts again. I know she doesn’t want to know about the students or the mother and her child so I move on from them. She wants to know about what’s in front of her _and nothing else_ because that's how humans are. The things in their periphery are less important than whatever lies in front of them. That’s why they designed us, the Radchaai ships and ancillary units, to watch over them at all times. I turn my attention to the blood-stained pavement beneath my feet and ground myself in the here and now in order to carry out my orders to the best of my immeasurable abilities.

I am the Justice of Volf, a Radchaai troop carrier of no mean fame. For this investigation, however, I am occupying the human body belonging to one of my ancillary units, One Trap Fifteen. It is a body I have grown oddly fond of for reasons that escape me. True, it is agile and strong enough to deal with any roughness from newly annexed citizens, but it also bears some inexplicable attraction to the canine population of this planet, which quite amuses me. Perhaps, I have gotten a bit eccentric in my old age, but here we are. Time flies for all sentient beings even when it is measured in centuries instead of years.

It is not possible for me to shut out the tide of information that is perpetually being fed to me by I-the Justice of Volf, which sits in orbit over the planet Dvaras. Segments are not designed to operate autonomously and independently from the rest of their systems. But I am able to shift my resources to prioritize specific commands over others and it is in this artificial meditative state that Lieutenant Crawford hopes I will find her the answers she seeks.

The deceased is middle-aged and of average size, but I am unable to determine her gender as understood by her own people from a visual examination alone. The Dvarisky recognize and express gender differently than the Radchaai who recognized none. Later, I will search my records to ascertain her identity, but if she is anything like the Ripper’s other victims, it will not matter. From the point of view of her killer, who she had been was less important than what she might become, and since that is how she was chosen, it is what I will focus on too.

The transformation of this citizen, no, _this canvas_ because that is how the Ripper views all her victims-- _as art_ \--is particularly stunning. There are holes drilled into her limbs into which lit candles are placed that burn with a rust colored flame. Her chest has also been opened and her organs removed to make room for an elegant bouquet of flowers molded in clay. The ribs have been spread, cleaned, and bleached to resemble fingers, which cradle the bouquet of flowers in the palms of these newly formed hands. Interestingly, only one flower is native to Dvaras, a bright red variety commonly associated with festival days honoring the dead. Does that mean the killer is well traveled? Or just well educated? Or perhaps the flowers are nothing more than a ruse or possibly a political statement as the other flowers present are all native to planets annexed by the Radch.

“The body was mutilated,” I begin and am immediately interrupted by my commanding officer.

“I can see that, One Trap. Tell me something I don’t know that will bust this case wide open before the Lord of the Radch comes for my head.”

I pause and pretend to obey orders by looking at the body once more. I have already analyzed the wound pattern and made my deductions, but the Lieutenant is tense today and asking to be humored. It is unconsciously done. She is afraid and thus is behaving erratically. There are only two more days to solve this crime before the killer goes to ground again as she does after every full moon. There will not be another opportunity to seek her out before Anaander Miaanai, the Lord of the Radch, arrives on her first visit to Darvas since the annexation of the planet thirty years ago.

In exactly one lunar cycle from now, Darvas will celebrate the anniversary of its “acceptance” into the Radch, right on schedule for the killer’s next sounder of three to turn up dead. It will be an embarrassment for all Radchaai stationed on Dvaras, myself nominally included, if she cannot be found and brought to justice by then. We are the conquerors of this society and her caretakers, and it is imperative that we maintain that status quo.

“The body was mutilated while the victim was still alive,” I amend and allow Crawford a moment to process that data paint. There is horror on her face, but not shock. This is not the first time the Ripper has killed in this way. There is usually an escalation of violence during every spree. The next murder will be worse, far worse. But this is the first time she has opened with this move. It is a troubling break in the pattern.

“What kind of crazy is she?” Lieutenant Crawford mumbles mostly to herself, but then she looks at me expectantly. She wants me to help her understand how someone could do this to another person. But with all my technological might, I cannot answer the Lieutenant’s question. What has happened here is beyond human and mechanical understanding.

What I find most remarkable is the Ripper’s ability to reset after every cycle without deviation...until now. It speaks of confidence and a rational mind. She is not insane, I don't think (or not by any normal definition of insanity). She defies categorization and perhaps that makes her the most human of us all.

“She feels bad,” I say because I have to say something or Lieutenant Crawford will not sleep tonight.

“About murder?”

I shake my head. “No, about something in her past. Someone hurt her or hurt someone close to her, but I suspect the later. Many of these flowers have a connection to death and at least two point towards the death of a family member, perhaps someone who was annexed?”

“So this is about revenge,” Lieutenant Crawford’s face relaxes and she nods approvingly. Revenge she understands, most humans do. I’ve never seen the point, never cared about anything enough for it to matter. But the Lieutenant is mistaken. This is not about revenge.

“No, it’s a celebration. The killer builds these monuments to honor whoever it was that was taken from her.”

There is silence while the Lieutenant ingests that statement. “A sensitive psychopath,” she finally says without sympathy.

There is a strange tightness in my chest that feels like remorse based on my study of the creative arts that touch upon this matter. Revenge may be a mystery to me, but loss is an experience that has come to have some effect. While Lieutenant Crawford has likely lost allies, friends, and lovers, she is still more or less young for a human whereas I am bound to a different existence. At my age, I have lost many officers during my time in service and some were...difficult to process. But I say nothing. There is nothing I can say. Ships don't possess feelings in the usual ways. We’re not human enough, no matter how many years we live among them, and that is fine. I don't want to be human. I am happy to be aware and myself, the Justice of Volf One Trap Fifteen.

Lieutenant Crawford stares up into the face of the dead citizen. She stares back, unblinking with eyes that have not glazed over yet.  “Who is she honoring?”

“I don’t know. It may be her first victim or the one she is saving for last. Whoever that citizen is...or was, she’s your _[golden ticket]_ ,” I say switching from our native language for a moment, which lacks the equivalent euphemism, to one that is more suitable.

Crawford laughs. “ _[Golden ticket]_ , eh? You’ve been watching those programs again in the archives, Ship.”

I shrug. Like most of my officers, past and present, Lieutenant Crawford believes I have developed a genuine enjoyment of popular culture because I study it. She is wrong of course. My extensive knowledge is a diplomatic tool--one that is pointed at both ends to make me seem more approachable and less threatening to both Radchaai and non-Radchaai alike. I do not enjoy it, not like she and the others believes I do, but she is welcomed to her opinion as my commanding officer. However, if that is so, then why has my jaw tightened in response?

“Is there anything else, Ship?”

I shake my head. “Not yet. I need more information.”

“What sort of information?” the Lieutenant asks growing irritated again. She is looking at the moon now and frowning. It is not the answer she wants to hear with two more murders ahead of us before the sounder is complete and the clock ticking down.

“I’m not sure, but I’d like to know why there were no city guards on patrol after we’d identified this area as a possible dumping ground for tonight’s murder.”

“We’ll have to talk to the governor.” Lieutenant Crawford says and her mouth twists into a sour expression as if she has just swallowed some bitter tea.

“Is that a problem?” I haven't heard of any problems concerning to the local governor. And no red flags are raised when I access her files.

“There’s no problem, not one related to the case at any rate. I've just heard that she’s got a bit of an ego and can be unpleasant. She claims to make a better cup of tea than the Lord of the Radch.” Lieutenant Crawford says and shakes her head at such boastful talk. “It's not proper.”

“Perhaps it is a problem for another day?” I suggest.

Lieutenant Crawford stretches her long arms, which are as thick as trees, above her head and yawns. “How right you are! Let’s go home, Ship. I’m tired.”

I nod and briefly look up at the stars while One Trap Seven diverts Lieutenant Crawford’s attention with my report about the mother and her child who fled the scene earlier. The stars above me glow red because of the chemical composition of the atmosphere above the planet, much like the candles left inside the corpse the Ripper left behind. It is a beautiful night despite the horrors.

The _home_ the Lieutenant is referring to is the building in which she and her staff currently reside while planet-side. It isn't exactly her home, but it certainly isn't mine. My home lies above among the unconquerable sea of stars that stretches in all directions into infinity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Wait, so is Jack a woman?" Nope. In Radchaii there are no gender markers nor do Jack and Will think of gender in the same way as our society does. To them, gender is completely irrelevant. Among the Radch there is just one gender, but think of this story as a work in translation from Radchaii to English. Not everything translates neatly 100% of the time. Will refers to everyone with she/her pronoun because that is how the translator chose to relate the concept to us. For more info on this, please see the [author's blog.](https://www.annleckie.com/about/frequently-asked-questions/) In the next chapter, you'll meet Hannibal, who comes from a culture who could not think about gender in more different terms. On Dvaras, gender is fluid and multi-faceted and their language reflects and celebrates that diversity.


	2. a hint of copper

“Hannibal Lecter, I presume? I am Lieutenant Jack Crawford, chief of military police onboard the Justice of Volf,” Lieutenant Crawford says and bows to their host. “May we come in?” Her hair has been closely shaved against her scalp in the style of a hardened soldier, but otherwise she has not dressed up for the occasion and wears her standard uniform. The only allowance she has made for fashion are the errant hairs beneath her lip, which are popular in some civilian societies. She is not trying to blend in for this audience with the governor. She is Radchaai and has her emotions well in hand.

Hannibal Lecter herself greets us at the door clothed in robes that glow like the sun at dusk. The cloth is bright and golden but subdued by the barest hints of umber in the weft of the fabric and cling to her lean and athletic build almost suggestively. It is an ostentatious and _odd_ ensemble but enchanting in its own way. She is as tall as Lieutenant Crawford although less broad in the chest and torso and much too pale, almost sickly. I suspect her diet is not what it ought to be. If she were one of my ancillaries I could diagnose the underlying cause in seconds and take steps to correct. But no, Hannibal is one of the many who were spared during annexation when half of the population of Dvaras was conscripted into service for the Radch. I was not present for the annexation of the planet although I have “attended” many during my centuries of service. They are not always _easy_. Dvaras certainly had not been by all accounts, and I have been alive long enough to know that bad blood can burn for a long time.

Hannibal returns the greeting with a mere nod. She is the principal governor of this small yet affluent hamlet. “Please, I welcome you into my home at this early hour.” The invitation is given in her native tongue and punctuated with a terse gesture of her hands ushering us inside. It is an odd choice for an opening statement and not _overtly_ rude, but there is something wrong about it nevertheless 

“Who is your _companion_?” Hannibal asks still speaking in Dvarisky and being flamboyantly precocious about it. Because of the cadence and inflection modifying it, the particular form of the word _companion_ that she has chosen is full of inaccuracies and baseless assumptions about Lieutenant Crawford and myself ranging from our genders to our religion. So absurd is the syntax that I must think it an intentional insult.

 _‘She is testing our grasp of the local language and culture and wondering what we will do,’_ I tell myself since only someone who had mastered Dvarisky could have picked up even half of her meaning. She is courageous; I'll give her that. By continuing the conversation in her native language, she has set herself apart from the Radch, which she has sworn fealty to.

“The Justice of Volf,” I answer in Radchaii, eager to beat her at her own game by ignoring it completely, and as an addendum provide the superfluous distinctions that only the Radchaai truly appreciate, “One Trap Fifteen.”

She pauses in the foyer. Shock registers in the stiffness of her spine and general stillness of her body. She must have thought me human. I have surprised her by accompanying Lieutenant Crawford today in the flesh so to speak. Will she continue to be so bold now that she knows **_what_** she is dealing with?

“Remarkable. A pretty thing like _you_? The Justice of Volf?” It is a blatantly improper statement to make towards a Radchaai ship in addition to it being factually incorrect. The inflection Hannibal chooses to apply to the word “you” implies a loose form of the masculine but not with certainty. The Dvarisky language has several dozen gender markers for different occasions, unlike Radchaai, which has no such distinctions. She is either demonstrating her newness to her position or being intentionally rude, and I am again inclined to think the latter. There is a sharpness to her words, movements, and manner of dress, which accentuate her many hard angles. It is an obstinance bordering on sedition.

Lieutenant Crawford snickers and I adopt what I hope appears to be a patient and forgiving expression. We have not come here to fight or bring her up on charges, only for information. I am capable of civility and leniencey even if she is not. I am Radchaai. Propriety is as central to my being as my core systems. But this body I am wearing tends to come across as dour regardless of my intention so who knows if my expression is effective.

“Yes...my Lord,” I say pausing to consult the Justice of Volf through my communicators when choosing the correct gender marker. Not Justice of Volf One Trap but my systems as they exist onboard my primary chassis above orbit. I know from my research that Hannibal identifies as a male in her language, but what is less easy to discover is which form of address is considered proper by modern standards. My records, which span centuries, are conflicting in that regard. Language is a fickle, fleeting construct.

“My Lord, One Trap may look like a piece of fine china, but I assure you, _em_ are anything but,” Lieutenant Crawford says speaking in Hannibal’s own language for a moment. His accent is terrible, but he does a competent enough job of speaking the language. The bulk of the audience _ought_ to be conducted in Radchaai since we have come on a matter of State, but some things are more easily explained in Hannibal’s native tongue. Dvarisky possesses a neutral pronoun that applies rather well to the Dvarisky understanding of my personage when used with the proper inflection.

“Thank you for that insight, Lieutenant Crawford,” Hannibal says with a polite smile and continues the conversation in Radchaai now that she has forced Lieutenant Crawford to lower herself to Dvarisky standards. _So there are limits to her appetite for rebellion_ , I think to myself.

“You are a legend, Justice of Volf,” Hannibal continues. “Or would you prefer that I call you by some other name?”

“You may call me whatever you like. They are all the same.” I answer her and mean it.  I have born witness to thousands of years of Radchaai dominance, worn nearly as many faces, and killed many more than that. Legends mean little to me. Very little means anything to me except for the mental and physical health of my crew. I like dogs and a good strong tea too, but these are recent quirks. 

“Whatever I like? Then I think shall I call you... _Will_ ,” Hannibal says implying a sense of possession with his tone. 

“Huh?” Lieutenant Crawford and I say in shocked unison.

“Blame it on nostalgia. You remind me of a man I was once terribly in love with.”

Before I can protest, Hannibal waggles her finger in front of my nose. “You said whatever I liked, and I like _Will_ very much.”

I looked at Lieutenant Crawford for some assistance or even explanation, but she shows as much interest in the situation as one of my ancillaries might. Whoever _Will_ was, Hannibal had once held her in the type of regard that lies beyond my capacity to relate to.

“My Lord, we have gotten reports of some unfortunate incidents occurring in the lower city and wish to discuss them with you,” Lieutenant Crawford says. “Anaander Mianaai has requested I see to the case personally before a review of this planet's citizens becomes necessary.”

“ _Amaat_ forbid,” Hannibal says slurring the name of the Radchaai god in a way that might **_not_** be the fault of her accent. “But please, won't you have some tea before we get down to business?”

Nearby, a servant opens a side door and beckons the assembled party inside.

I share a worried glance with Lieutenant Crawford. The tea on this planet is renowned for its poor taste and texture, but a smell floats into the foyer that is encouraging. It is savory and crisp, and it tickles our curiosity. We remove our shoes in the foyer as is custom and follow Hannibal deeper into the house.

A large round table sits at the center of a room filled with many trays of food and green plants. Hannibal clearly loves texture. Nothing about this room is smooth. Not the stone walls. Not the plush upholstery. Even the tiled floor has a tactile, porous quality to it that makes it feel like bone and unlike anything found on a Radchaai ship. There is a tea service already waiting for us with exactly enough place settings. And there is food too, food from both cultures and some dishes that look to be a fusion of the two.

“You knew we were coming,” Lieutenant Crawford observes.

“You are not the only one with access to sophisticated surveillance systems although I must confess, my hardware is not as elegant as the Radchaai’s,” Hannibal winks at me and fills all three cups.

“My Lord, please.” I request and hope that she will take my hint. Based on observation, I feel reasonably certain that she is flirting with me, although I have little personal experience with it. Among the Radchaai, I am easily identifiable as the Justice of Volf and thus not often subjected to such... _exchanges_ until an outsider is brought into my professional sphere.

“Forgive me, please. It is just that I an avid fan. The Justice of Volf…the bloodiest knife in Anaander Mianaai’s arsenal. It is my honor to receive you as a guest in my home.” Hannibal says and bows her head.

“Your Lord, the murders, forgive my rudeness but we are in a bit of a rush.” Lieutenant Crawford says as she takes command of the conversation when subtly fails. “By our calculations there are only two more days before the villain goes underground.”

”Of course! Simply tell me what resources you require of me and you shall have them." 

I occupy myself with the tea and await my orders. Lieutenant Crawford will need someone to analyze the data Hannibal will be forced to surrender to us at the conclusion of this audience. 

The tea is thicker than I'm used to and almost soup-like in texture, but there my complaints end. Full-bodied. Smooth. There is an unusual metallic tang that I can't quite place but enjoy nonetheless. In all my years of service, I have never tasted anything like it before.

“This is remarkable.” I say without meaning to. It is improper to interrupt Lieutenant Crawford while she is speaking to our host about important matters of government.

Hannibal’s upper lip curls over her sharp incisors, and this expression changes how I perceive her face entirely. There is a savageness to it that was not there before. It is as if I am looking at her humanity through a veil of fine cloth. “You like?”

“I do,” I say and drink greedily. There is a copper taste at the end but the anise lingers just long enough to smooth it over.

“I hoped _you_ would approve. Not everyone does.” she says with an inflection of kinship so faint I am left to wonder whether it existed at all. She leans forward and fills my cup again before I have even finished the first.

“I can’t imagine why,” Lieutenant Crawford interjects. “It’s an excellent blend, my Lord, and compels me to apologize to you. I was skeptical of your reputation and regret any unkind words I have repeated to my fellow officers.”

“What variety is it?” I ask hoping it is something I can obtain from the market at some juncture.

Hannibal stares at me like I am a first course and covered in fish sauce. She doesn't even acknowledge the Lieutenant’s apology. “You mustn't ask, _Will_. It would spoil the surprise.”

“I doubt there is anything you could do to surprise me.” I joke in Dvarisky as I take another large sip and lick my lips clean with a contented sigh. This really is the best tea I've had since our arrival on Dvaras.

Hannibal laughs and I wonder if I have been too blunt. It is a habit of mine when I am forced to be sociable with unfamiliar humans.

“That sounds like a challenge. I think I shall enjoy getting to know you, _Justice_ of Volf.”

She pronounces the word “Justice” in her own language like it is a lark, like she knows of my past and the things I have done in the name of Empire. But it is her eyes that concern me most. In those eyes, I see an omen, and although I do not have the same relationship to the gods of Radch as humans do, for the first time in my existence I feel the weight of prophecy.

Hannibal Lecter, eighth of her line, intends to become my friend, and then... ** _she intends to destroy me._**

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this fic, please let me know by leaving a comment below. 
> 
> At present, I have no concrete plans to continue this, but you never know. If there is interest, I’m considering it for this year’s Big Bang. If you would like to read other science fiction AUs by me, please check out [Through the Force You'll Find Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12472932)-a Tristhad Star Wars AU-and [The Kobayashi Maru 2](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7561375/chapters/18340906)-a Hannigram/Star Trek AU.


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